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Well, time to get my rear end kicked. Here's a few. I was sitting in the billiard room in the West wing of the mansion when I looked up from my copy of “Why Chicks Dig Novels About Scottish Highlanders” to notice a monkey playing an 8-ball variant of pool with my friend and colleague, Dr. Spitzmore. I scowled at the monkey and informed the little fellow that monkeys have not yet developed the intelligence to play pool. The rude little bugger replied by scowling back, holding up his paw, extending his middle finger and proudly screeching “make a wish, bitch-nuts.” I suppose I didn’t think things through when Gunther offered me a demonstration in anti-ontology. Until that point, the notion of oblivion simply did not seem real. Matter, energy, all of it simply was. I could even conceive of anti-matter, though only marginally. The true difficulty was in encountering absolute nothingness, even a pocket f such. It wasn’t a singularity, because that exists. It is present and has an effect on the universe around it. For a single moment, I was exposed to the concept of truly pure nothingness. He obliviated somebody’s car and the matter was gone, no energy left behind, and the possibility of a car existing there was erased. I think it was a car, at least. The owner remembered nothing being there. It was raining, and the empty parking spot was wet, so the rain did not acknowledge what must have been a car. A man stepped out of the Super Pasta and stared at the spot like he was trying to remember something, scratching his head and screwing up his face like he was trying to take a dump. Gunther laughed and turned, and I knew he’d done it, whatever it might be. He’d completely removed a thread of reality. When Constance leveled the Glock at my right eye, I was pretty certain she’d pull the trigger before I could blink. Then I blinked. She only grinned and yanked back her gun hand, flipping the gun over her finger by its trigger guard. “Stay out of my way,” she coolly intoned, “I wasn’t hired to remove you. This time.”
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Aug 22, 2015 04:31
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| # ¿ May 14, 2024 08:21 |
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Alright, taking into account that I pretty much was setting myself up for abuse and posting bullshit that I thought was clever years ago, I have decided to just write something and get an honest critique. Yeah, those were older snippets that I mostly just typed up for coworkers as a lark to fill up blank time. Shame on me. This is more of a character portrait, but if I'm just pulling my pud here, I'd rather know now. It's another night in. Just me, a movie, and Mary. Work was tedium and I don't feel up to playing video games. Besides, Mary's in a more amiable mood, so I should try to keep her happy. She sits lightly on the other end of the couch while I cycle through options on the streaming video service. It's hard to see her clearly, but I still try to register her reactions whenever I linger on a video. Her wavy black hair is hanging over a lot of her face. Anybody who didn't know her like I do would assume she's had a bad day, or they'd just pretend she wasn't there. There is the time she scared the poo poo out of the landlord, but he just swore she was somebody who used to live here. Her strained eyes twitch up at the screen when I stop on a documentary about cats in Rome. Cats in Rome it is. She doesn't like when I look directly at her, but I more than just glance. Outside of the strongly negative aura she puts off, Mary is pretty much in the average range. In fact, she's easier to define by the things that she isn't than the things that she is, but I try. She's pale. Her hair is black and wavy. She's a bit unkempt, but to be fair, the past few years have been unkind to her. Very unkind. The next part is difficult to keep in positive terms. She's quiet. She speaks sometimes, but it's usually confused. When she overflows, she tends to blow up in hysterical sobbing or howling rage. If I had more self-respect or will to stand up and be my own person, I'd have left already. Most people do. Then again, what else am I doing with my life? She glances at me briefly, but looks down, then back at the screen. I made her self-conscious again. Well, I suppose I should eat tonight. The walk to the kitchen is brief enough, and I grab the two styrofoam boxes, one with General Tso's chicken, the other with beef broccoli. The beef broccoli goes in front of her, the lid flipped open. I stab a pair of chopsticks into the rice and leave it there, because that's how she prefers that I offer it. I start eating my culturally disingenuous dish and watch more facts about cats. Cats in Rome. Apparently they enjoy the Colosseum. Our first meeting was very confusing. She just seemed so lost, and I know I was lost. Mary can be off-putting to most people, but I accept her as she is. I just sometimes wish I knew how to help her. Like usual, she isn't touching her food. I suppose it can't be helped. I used to try talking to her more, but she isn't much for discussions. She isn't much for anything, really, but her presence is strangely comforting. Some part of myself wishes more of her. We have a relationship, but I really don't know what it is. I know that we aren't more than friends, but is she really a friend? She basically sits in my apartment while I try to take care of her. Sometimes I think I'd do anything to see her smile, but maybe I'm just being overly dramatic. We're a half hour into the documentary and she scoots closer. Before I can get any kind of hope/disappointment cycle into my head, she leans over and lays her head on my shoulder. This isn't the first time, but it's always strange. I can feel pressure but no weight. It's like she's not there. It's like she's there. It's not like anything. Last time I tried to put an arm around her, but that didn't work out so well so I'll let her rest as she pleases. Besides, I'm done eating. I can't say I give a poo poo about cats in Rome, but I typically don't let people get within a certain radius of me anyways. Why is it okay if she does it? Well, she was here first. It isn't her apartment anymore. I did read her diary, though. I understand why she did it and I wish I knew how to help her, but I secretly don't mind the company. Am I keeping her here? I glance at her face over my shoulder. Well, I don't have much purpose other than this anyways. My degree in Anthropology doesn't amount to jack or poo poo. I work in a call center. I don't have anybody else in my life. I can't claim to be good at anything. All I have is the head on my shoulder, and she doesn't have anything but unfinished business that she won't talk about. How much do the lips have to curve to constitute a smile?
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Sep 15, 2015 17:47
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So what I'm taking away right now is that this could be stretched out into a longer story and made more interesting, but as stands it is too static. I guess I'll ruin one aspect of it in that I was probably attempting to be too witty. Mary is a ghost haunting the guy's apartment and the protag is such an awful goon that it's pretty much turned into a weird relationship. So if I draw this out into a longer story and keep piling on hints, it might almost work?
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Sep 16, 2015 11:31
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sebmojo posted:Yes. It's surprisingly effective to just start with a completely absurd opening line and see where it takes you. 'It's just another night in, just me and Mary, who is a ghost.' Does that improve the story vastly? let's see. Hm. Kinda wondering if I could get away with putting the reveal of her being a ghost at the end, or is that still trying too hard to be clever? I know that under 1000 words means being more direct and more telling rather than showing, but I feel like saying she's a ghost at the beginning is like explaining a joke before you tell it.
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Sep 16, 2015 21:00
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